


Touch of Evil

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-13
Updated: 2008-06-13
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:19:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some pleasures are less guilty than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch of Evil

Aziraphale makes it round to the pâtisserie before the morning rush. The chausson aux pommes and almond croissants are still warm as he skirts them through the door, a bag in each hand (and one between his teeth: chocolate truffles for tonight); still warm at the newsagent's, the florist's, and the on the kerb by his shop.  
  
Getting inside is rather an errand. But the lock obliges to ethereal persuasion. There's even a spot on the counter upon which to spread his parcels.  
  
He waits for the kettle to boil the usual way, and decides that one truffle won't hurt.  
  
*  
  
If a perfect moment exists, it looks like this: yellow light through aged glass, slightly warped near the bottom, every imperfection casting a minute shadow on the journeys of Don Quixote.  
  
The ink is blue-black, and mottled. It isn't a first edition. Not even a fine third. Rather, it's a rumpled readers' club number Aziraphale paid too much for at a boot sale, unable to see it binned.  
  
And this is late September, nine past nine, just as the second hand reaches seven. By nine-fifteen, he's tracing back up the stair, trying – and failing – to keep the creak at bay.  
  
*  
  
Crowley's warm in all the usual places: soles and crooks and taut lines, like the flesh above his collarbone. And he tastes better than he ought. Better, Aziraphale thinks, than expected, like a memory from a time before you were you, always sweeter in the recall.  
  
Aziraphale sits beside him, tea tray on his lap.  
  
Crowley cracks open an eye. "You're dressed."  
  
"I bought breakfast."  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Chanson St. Michel's"  
  
"Bring something with nuts in?"  
  
"Most probably."  
  
"Because I'll not get up for anything less than macadamia."  
  
Aziraphale casts a wondering glance at the tray. Licks his lips. "I hope you're comfortable."


End file.
